I Don't Know Why I'm Crying
by RosalynThorn
Summary: Jeremy has friends now, in the plural, and the only voice in his head is himself. But he's not a big fan of Jeremy Heere, and every so often he misses the convenience of being Squipped.


Jeremy cries more often, after the SQUIP is gone.

He knew it was doing something with his hormones- between that and the skincare instructions his acne had cleared up- but he had never really asked.

He'll never know now, except that when he's back home and the pain ripping through his body comes anew, he tears up.

And when the aching emptiness subsides and he comes down to find that dad made lunch for them, he tears up.

And when he's back in Michael's basement, the familiar smell of weed even stronger than he remembers, tears spring to his eyes.

"Hey dude, you okay?"

"Yeah- yeah, I'm fine." Jeremy scrubs at his eyes and smiles at Michael, practiced and fake.

But eventually that fades away, and everything is normal, except that the popular kids actually talk to him now, and Christine sits at his table and gushes about performance art, and sometimes Michael leaves to go sit somewhere else.

Sometimes Jake will brag to the table about archery, or Chloe will rant about how shitty Madeline's nail polish is, or Jenna will come by with gossip about someone he doesn't recognize, and Jeremy's throat will close up.

He'll open his mouth, and nothing will come to mind. He stutters out an answer and pretends he doesn't see their raised brows- but really, his poker face is shit. It's always been shit. He knows it's shit.

Sometimes he wishes he had a line waiting ready for him.

"Hey." Brooke's voice is still musical, at least when it's unscripted.

"Hey." Jeremy turns his head back to the Pinkberry cash register and pretends it's fascinating, and she lets him.

It's not the same anymore- things will never be like they were when Brooke was in love with him and Jeremy was a teenage cyborg and he was fake, so fake he felt like he might as well have been made from plastic and silicone. A giant dildo to be displayed to the world.

Even though Brooke has never made a point out of it, seems reluctant to hold it against him now that it's in the past, he can't help but remember.

He tried to talk about it to Michael.

"Yeah, that was pretty shitty, wasn't it." Michael says it in the same clipped tones as "an epic journey through twelve years of friendship," and Jeremy flushes even darker with shame. "But hey, she's still talking to you, so not all hope is lost." Michael's tone is chipper but forced. Jeremy tries to let the words reassure him anyways.

They don't.

He can't tell himself it's for a greater purpose or that it'll just pass or that he shouldn't feel bad about it.

He wishes someone else would.

It's Saturday, but Jeremy can't bring himself to stay in bed or watch porn. His body thrums with electric vigor even as he shoves the pillow over his head, and when he pulls open his phone he finds himself checking his email again and again. There's still only spam, just like there was a minute ago.

Penis enlargement pills for five easy payments of $19.99. Hot singles in his area who want to meet up. Winning lotteries he never even entered. All trash.

He shuffles to the bathroom, stares at his own long face. It's just as easy to see everything that's wrong with it junior year as it was freshman. His acne is back, zits and blackheads clustered together like mold. His nose is still awkward and unfortunate looking as ever. Maybe worse. Has it gotten bigger? He tilts his head to check; sees his ears protruding awkwardly out of his head and wishes again he could pay someone to cut off the wrong parts of his face.

He threw away his old journal, so he doesn't remember exactly what he wanted to change it to. He's still rooting through old, barely used school notebooks to make a fresh start when Rich texts him. Jeremy accepts the distraction for what it is.

It's Algebra that does him in. Jeremy studied all night, until he was bleary eyed and empty. He borrowed Christine's notes. He asked Chloe to explain it. Michael stayed up with him until sleep did him in.

Today's the day the teacher passes out the midterms, and he looks down at math his racing mind doesn't understand and wishes he didn't have to be here. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to sit down as everyone else gets to work, hear their faint scribbles on the paper, and feel his mind go blank.

'I hate math,' Jeremy thinks, and his heavy breathing comes way too loud in his ears. He knows everyone can hear him. They can hear how pathetic he is, so he curls his face into his desk before they can see it too, and tries to restrict his sobs to faint little gasps for air.

No one comforts him.

[[ That's not how you do polynomial division, Jeremy. ]]


End file.
